


Not Yet

by anneapocalypse



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Extra Treat, F/F, First Kiss, Glory Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Needles, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22199671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: Glory's eyes are unfocused, darting around the dim catacomb, her voice hoarse when she murmurs, "Isn't there... supposed to be a light?""Not yet there isn't," Fixer says, shoving an arm under Glory's shoulders and dragging her to her feet. "Come on, we gotta move."
Relationships: Glory/Female Sole Survivor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Not Yet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tuesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/gifts).



> A treat for Tuesday. Hope you enjoy.

Fixer's boots beat a frantic pace on the dusty floor of the catacombs, her medical bag thumping against her hip as she runs. Her companions keep pace on her heels, but all of them stagger to a momentary halt at the sight that greets them in the open chamber. All around them, still figures in power armor lie crumpled on the floor, the stench of blood and the ozone smell of energy weapons heavy in the air. But what arrests Fixer is the silver-haired, leather-armored figure slumped by the steps.

Despite her height, she suddenly looks so small.

"None of them got past me," Glory hisses as Fixer runs to her. The blood from her wounds is already seeping into her hand wraps despite how tightly she's pressing what remains of her body armor into her ribcage. " _Damn_ —that stings."

"Don't move," Fixer commands, dropping to her knees. Through the walls she can hear the thudding footsteps of Brotherhood power armor. The way sound echoes off the stone makes it hard to tell direction, but it's close. Too close. "Preston—"

"On it," Preston says immediately, and charges ahead down the corridor with Mac and Piper close behind. Fixer hears pistol shots and laser musket fire.

"Let me see—"

Glory keeps going like she doesn't even hear. "Listen…"

"I need to see it, Glory—"

"The Railroad's always sitting on its hands—"

Fixer pulls Glory's hand carefully away from the wound and fresh blood wells up around the shredded leather. It's bad. Deep. The filthy brick wall behind her shines with blood, turned sickly in the yellow light of Fixer's Pip-Boy. Fix doesn't want to think about how much of that blood might be Glory's. She'll have to see just how bad it is, what's going on inside, but she can't do it here. Fixer fishes a half-empty bottle of vodka from her satchel, says "This will hurt," and sloshes it over the wound. Glory yells in pain, and grabs her arm.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened—"

"Tell me later," says Fixer, stuffing a wad of the cleanest bandage she has against the wound, wedging it in place under the corner of Glory's body armor. It's not going to be secure enough, not with her armor this damaged. She winds strips of bandage around Glory's torso, right under her ribs, under the armor, knots it off tightly directly over the wound.

"Promise me you'll free them," Glory says, and coughs. "All of them."

"You're gonna do it with me," Fixer says. "Now stop talking. We have to get out of here."

But Glory isn't moving. Her eyes have closed. Her brown skin has taken on an ashen hue in the cold, dim light of the catacombs, and Fixer goes cold inside at the sight.

"No no no Glory _stay with me—"_

Fixer is five-foot-two. Fixer is a medic, and she can move people when she has to, but not _far_. Glory is tall, muscular. Fixer won't be able to carry her far, not as dead weight.

Her combat knife slices through the leather straps of Glory's armor. No time for buckles now. Beneath the armor her cotton shirt is thin, threadbare, and Fixer simply feels for the space between the ribs with her fingertips. She primes a stimpak and jams the syringe directly into Glory's chest, close to her heart.

It's an extreme measure, but she has to bring Glory out of shock. The stimulants will keep her heart beating, at least for now. Hopefully long enough.

The next stimpak goes directly into the wound, and Fixer follows it with two shots of Med-X.

Glory's eyes fly open and she groans, a tremor ripping through her body so violently that for a moment Fixer fears she's going into convulsions. Glory's eyes are unfocused, darting around the dim catacomb, her voice hoarse when she murmurs, "Isn't there... supposed to be a light?"

"Not yet there isn't," Fixer says, shoving an arm under Glory's shoulders and dragging her to her feet. "Come on, we gotta move."

The Railroad's inner sanctum is deserted, everyone having moved out on defense. Fixer can only pray their line holds. Glory can't go much further. She's barely made it this far, and her weights leans heavy on Fixer's shoulders as Fixer maneuvers her to the pre-war surgical table. Its faux-leather cover is torn, faded and stained. The sounds of gunfire grow distant as Fixer quickly collects what instruments they have and douses them with alcohol, scrubbing the stinging liquid over her badly-chapped hands as well.

Glory is hovering at the edge of consciousness, and Fixer has already given her as much Med-X as she dares. For stitches and minor wounds she's not opposed to offering her patient a swig of alcohol to take the edge off, but the way Glory's bleeding she can't take the risk.

By the light of her Pip-Boy, Fixer gets to work.

She works for well over an hour, but when she finishes, Glory's wound is cleaned, closed, and dressed.

Glory is unconscious, but she is breathing. Armor stripped away, her chest rising and falling beneath the thin shirt stained with her blood. There is a bullet graze on her left bicep. Should probably disinfect that, too. Distantly in the tunnels, Fixer can still hear gunfire, the occasional rumble of explosives in the stone under her feet.

Have they pushed the Brotherhood back? Will they be safe?

Fixer has her pistol. Has a scoped hunting rifle she uses to pick off raiders and other undesirables at a distance, which'll be utterly useless in the twisting tunnels of the catacombs. She's not a bad shot, though. Should be on the front lines with the other agents—

but Glory.

If Glory stops breathing, if she goes into shock, there will be no one here to help, and Glory will die.

If Fixer goes, and the Brotherhood breaches again from the other side, Glory will die.

Glory will die, and Fix never will have told her—

Never will have told her.

Fixer takes up her pistol and checks the rounds. From this vantage on the metal swivel chair, she can pivot to see any of the three entrances.

If HQ falls, she will be the end of the line. She will kill as many of them as reach her. But she will not leave Glory.

It is some time later when a cold hand closes over her wrist, and Fixer nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Fix." Glory's voice is low and rougher than usual. But her eyes are open, liquid brown in the dusty light, some color has come back into her face, and Fixer finds comfort in the strength of her grip.

"Glory," she returns, hardly above a whisper.

"Hey," Glory rasps, her brow furrowing, and for a moment Fixer thinks it's the pain. But Glory's finger come up to trail wet over her cheekbone, and Fixer realizes it's not Glory's fingertips that are wet, but her own face.

Glory's dry lips quirk into a smirk. "Don't go soft on me now."

"Too late," Fixer whispers.

"Thought I was a goner."

Fixer draws a breath but can't speak. Glory's hand lingers on her face, her eyes on Fixer, waiting, and Fixer leans in slow, stupidly slow. Waiting for Glory to say _stop it_ , to push her away, for that gentle touch to leave her.

It doesn't, and her lips find Glory's, and instead of pushing her away, Glory's hand curls around the back of her neck, holding her there. Glory's mouth tastes of blood, and of smoke. But there is strength and vitality in her touch.

She's going to pull through this.

From the church entrance Fixer hears footfalls, raises her head, and reaches for her pistol out of instinct. But it's not the heavy sounds of power armor she hears. Normal footsteps. Glory's eyes stray that way too.

"The others…"

"Kicked some Brotherhood ass."

If Glory is thinking about why Fixer stayed behind with her, instead of charging to the front lines with the rest, she does not say it. Maybe she doesn't need to ask, now.

"I meant it," Glory says instead. "What I said back there."

"What?"

"About you. Best thing that ever happened. To the Railroad. To me."

Fixer swallows.

"Thought that was it," Glory says, and her hand brushes over her bandaged wounds. "My last chance to say it."

"Not yet," Fixer says, finding her voice as she takes Glory's hand, letting their calloused fingers entwine. "Not yet."

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't actually any canonical Railroad codename that corresponds to Medicine skill, unfortunately, but I felt like "Fixer" was the most appropriate of the canonical names.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
